Lucky
by KLPeterson
Summary: Bishop hires an assassin to kill Casavir. The assassin, however, finds Casavir appealing, and she and Bishop engage in a power struggle while each attempts to meet his or her own ends.
1. Chapter 1

Lucky

K Peterson

_**Rated M for strong sexual content. This has some seriously hardcore moments. I'm not kidding. You may be offended. This a story about an evil character, and she's every bit what she seems. There is S/M, violence, rape, and more. If this offends you, this probably is too strong of a story for you. Thanks, and enjoy. B**__**e **__**warned- there's some crudity in the use of language. **_

1.

Yeah, I like men. You could say that they're the reason I get up in the morning. Call me what you want. I don't waste much of the night sleeping. There's always one image following the next in my mind in a series that drives me to hunt again. On my knees, with his hand roughly gripping the back of my hair while he stares down at me with that look of "I own you". From the second I'm standing at the washbasin making myself presentable, I'm thinking about the next time I'm going to reach out and taste and touch what I want. I comb my hair, as black as the worst of the sins I've committed. And, five minutes after I've crawled out of this bed at the inn, I'm already thinking of the ranger.

It's his mouth that gets me the most. Men like him really shouldn't shave clean. It makes his lips look so much more ripe from tongue-play. His tongue never ceases to taste of mead. That's alright with me. I like them with vices. The one I'm going to have again tonight has scrape marks on his knees from how rough he needs to have it when I'm bent over the side of a chair.

I don't feel hollow, or ache with self-loathing. I simply love the rush and the sweat and the savagery of the act. I can't get enough of that look of need. It's the sound of that deep male groan that I don't want to shake from my mind with current events or any of the other drivel that the inn's clients spew forth. They see me come down the stairs, snickering and ribbing each other until my withering glare quiets them. I swagger to the bar. My daggers hang clearly from the back of my belt.

"Hey now, Triana, pay up if you want another week of bliss. And make it a gold, since you can't seem to keep the noise down." The innkeeper, whom I respect for his scars and his biceps, holds out his hand. I regard him with all seriousness. Do I have enough to get through another week or so, or do I have to move on?

During this meaningful exchange, I've neglected to notice that someone familiar has come up from beside me. Doesn't he smell divine. And he's got coin.

The innkeeper shakes his head as if disappointed. Bishop has placed a gold coin into his palm.

"You'd best watch that, friend," he warns, pocketing the gold. "The lady here doesn't like to be paid for her favors."

"I know what she likes." His tone indicates that his had better be the final word on the matter. And maybe it's the angle of his head or the obvious tattoo on his neck, but the innkeeper backs down. He takes a sudden interest in the furious cleaning of the glassware behind the bar as I turn to drink Bishop up with my eyes.

"Well, if it isn't our little addict, pining away all alone. I should take it as an insult to my pride that you've managed to drag yourself downstairs this morning." He motions for a drink, flashing silver. Clearly he's been doing well for himself lately. Something about some hero rising up from the swamplands and taking him on as a scout. Whatever it is, it's working for him.

He wears new leathers with studs that shine, and on his back is a bow that has teeth of its own. Part of me wonders whether the haze of lust that has taken him of late has anything to do with the dark-haired woman from the swamplands, and, if it does, I can't find fault with her. He can fantasize about her from afar for as long as he likes as long as it ends with the both of us soaked in each other's sweat beating the bed up against the wall. I want to possessively take hold of his head and suck at his lips, which I've been imagining all morning. Instead, I watch him intently as he sits and throws back his drink with that same lusty demeanor.

There is something tiring about keeping an inn room for your quarters. But the local Thieves' Guild doesn't know me, and won't, if I have my way. Knowledge of my actions could, of course, result in my death, but I am more than willing to take that risk when I consider handing over a portion of my earnings to Axle Devrie. It isn't going to happen in this lifetime. Then there is the sweet anticipation of fulfilling another contract, all the while wondering if some stranger is going to be breathing down my neck when I walk down the next alleyway. It's really all about the anticipation.

And so I continue to take my chances. I like what I do.

"As much as I hate to disappoint you," Bishop chuckles, stopping my hand short on his thigh, "I'm here for business. Not that your talents aren't appreciated. It's hard to forget such a... sweet little mouth." He has reached up one hand to take hold of my hair like a prize horse he's considering. It sends a thrill through me as I savor the tight clutch of his fingers.

"You're lucky it's dark in here," I tell him.

"Not so lucky, I think. But there will be time for that."

My hand eases higher to cup his groin. Expertly, he camouflages the motion with his cloak and the position of his legs. But he's enjoying it as much as I am. I work two fingers downward in the way that I know will stir him. His lips quirk to the side in half-amusement.

"Subtlety is not one of your strong suits. Try to remember that, if I wanted, I could have you on your knees in seconds."

And kill me, or fuck me, I think to myself. And I've identified that strangeness that lingers about him as a thin veneer of terror that at any moment he could end my life. It is his physical strength, his power, his feral passion and unpredictability that drives my need to take him to my bed. But I keep my knives close to me. I like my blood within my veins.

"Business," I sigh. "Someone take your honor in a brawl?"

"Honor!" Bishop scoffs. "I hadn't heard any good jests today. No, not quite honor." As he lets go of the handful of my hair, I can feel the sting of one of his bites burning on the back of my shoulder. The memory of the moment when I received it is like liquid pleasure tickling high up inside of me. I find myself looking at him with undisguised lust in my expression, and am happy to find in the stairwell to my room that he reciprocates the notion. I'm already basking in the fantasy of taking these blades and spilling blood when I know that it will put cool gold into my hands.

"Just give me a name."

The two of us work our way up the stairwell with hands, arms, and mouths working all over each other's bodies. I don't see any reason to resist stopping inside the doorway to my room to toss aside my dagger belt, strip down his pants and take him between my lips. He doesn't stop me. I can't believe how hard he's gotten this quickly. Now, once again, the moment is the pinnacle of everything that I want and need. I wonder, feeling him bucking wildly deep inside of my throat, if he finds it hard to stand when I'm working him well with my lips and hands. And, thankfully, he isn't tender. He is forceful, as if filled with some unseen urge that cannot be satisfied. When his thrusts become more hurried, I tighten my mouth around him. I can feel the flutter of uncontrollable release that is freed with his deep, guttural cry. He goes down to his knees while I slow my attentions, finishing him, drinking down his seed. Then I turn my back to him, picking up the gold he's brought me for the contract ahead.

Behind me, he staggers for a moment before his strength starts returning. He ties his pants and half sits, half reclines back on the bed.

This is where you say something cruel, I think to myself. Go ahead, if you must. It's wasted on me.

And he does. "How fortunate for me to get the lips instead of the daggers. I always knew I was a lucky man."

"Whose throat am I cutting, Bishop?" I pick up each of the daggers from the floor where I've dropped them. One has a shine I always admire.

"How about a paladin?"

"Ohh," I sigh with great relish. "That'll really cost you. Shaking my fist in the face of the gods and all that."


	2. Chapter 2

2.

I can't help but sulk a little when I see how handsome the mark is. Finding him is easily done. He snores like a bear. Before I've come halfway down the hall toward his room I've already heard him. Amusingly enough, his door isn't locked. Poor dear...how trusting. I know his type, and I can tell from experience that he isn't expecting company. In fact, in all likelihood he probably believes that he's safe here in the Sunken Flagon. He deserves the education that I'm about to give him. Not that it will do him any good considering how it will end.

Cloaking myself within the shadows, and making certain that my veil is in place, I step inside of the paladin's room. As soon as I look down at him, I'm very, very sorry that he has to die. He doesn't have the raw sensuality that I generally go for. But his lips are full, beautifully shaped, inviting. I watch his chest rising and falling. Broad and firm, and touched by dark, silky hair. A blanket loosely covers him below the navel. Of course, I don't mind seeing all of that black hair narrowing to the place where I lose it down below his covering. Once again I can't believe my good fortune. The mark is unarmed. The mark is asleep. And he sleeps naked.

I don't know what his dream involves, but it must be a good one. He puts on quite a show for me. First he starts to twist and writhe in his sleep. His lips part with a gentle moan as if I had already reached a hand down below the blanket to caress him. He is most pleasingly rising to the occasion. It would be a lie to say I'm not already fixated on the way the shape of his cock becomes more defined in response to whoever is stroking him in his deepest nocturnal fantasies.

But I've miscalculated. In the heat of my interest, I've neglected to see the jagged points of a knife on his nightstand. A nice idea, but not close enough to him to be of any use. Into my pack it goes. Determined not to make the same mistake twice, I do a visual sweep of the room. The blanket that covers the paladin has no unnatural outlines where something else could be concealed.

I could kill you, I whisper. I could. And I probably will.

But first...

It's a truly good thing that I've brought along my favorite things. One of them is this lovely fan-tipped wand of paralyzation.

His palms, face up on the pillow, tie easily once the green glow envelopes him. I bring a finger to my lips. "Shhhh! Quiet, or I'll cut you. And that's not what I want to do. Do you understand? Yes, of course you do."

His eyes, a striking blue, flash open in panic. He can see me. He can feel everything that I do. But that's all that he can do.

I don't want him too vexed with me. Not yet. "Right now I don't want your gold, and I don't care about who you are. All that I want from you is this." I'm using my most persuasive of voices. He starts trembling the instant that I take hold of him. It's clear that some part of him likes being straddled. He grows even thicker in my palm when I catch him there and hold him tightly in my fist, and my thighs fit snugly over his hipbones. He is straining against the spell, trying to fight it, as some misplaced sense of attempting to salvage his dignity mars his features.

"Listen to me, paladin. I have two terribly sharp daggers on me. And I can tell you what they want. But at this moment, what I'd rather have is you. So you can either struggle against me and make this hard for yourself..." I grin at the foolish pun. "Or you can lie back, close your eyes and pretend I'm the one you've been riding in your sleep. Seems a clear choice to me." For emphasis, I reach down with my hand to guide him closer to where I want him. The excitement of the moment has my body more than ready to receive his eager flesh. Oh, Bishop would be so annoyed with me.

How ironic is that humorless trick of the gods that makes men so vulnerable to the weaker sex. No doubt our evening of fun together will leave the paladin with endless guilt that will weigh upon his soul. At this instant, he may hate me, but his body most certainly does not. He is so easy to capture. In his eyes I can see his unspoken words... don't do this. Don't. They are pleading. So insistent upon holding onto his virtue. For this, I hate him. I hate him, and so I take him. I wring pleasure from him with hard, merciless vigor, and his perspiration soaks the sheet below him. He tenses. When I can just make out the feeling of a butterfly's wings within me, and know that I have won, I hover above him, then fight to concentrate on the panicked pleasure that springs forth from my own body. He glares at me, dark, ashamed, angry.

Fine, then. That's what I wanted. I'll make this painless. It's the least I can do.

But there's a flash of blue from behind me. Someone has caught me at the hunt. How could I lose myself in the moment so easily? The woman is coming at me with her mace, and she is not at all happy.

So someone does care for you after all, paladin. For what it's worth, I enjoyed it.

The woman is stronger than I would have supposed. And yes, she does look a bit like me. She fights valiantly for the one she was apparently coming to tuck in this evening. It takes all of my strength to break free of her hold long enough to give the wand another play. And then I'm down the hall as quietly and quickly as possible. Not today, paladin, I'm telling myself. But soon. Soon.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

(The Sunken Flagon)

"I... I wish to be alone now. Please." This is a side of Casavir I rarely see. The invisible weight of whatever agony hangs over him is palpable. Yet still, he manages to carry himself with dignity, despite the threat on his life and any words that had come with it. More than anything I long to approach him, to wrap my arms around him, to tell him that everything will well. But will it? The scenario stinks of an assassination attempt, and not by the githyanki that couldn't give us a week to breathe before sending something dreadful after us again. Besides, we've ended their threat with the death of Zeeaire. My friend, and the man I am slowly coming to care for, rises from the table. He is like a shadow of himself. Somewhere trapped inside of his own mind.

Duncan, sensing the tension, doesn't approach him to ask if he needs another glass. The one in Casavir's fist has shattered, cutting him, because he has been squeezing it so forcefully. He hastily bandages his own hand while Shandra and I sit at a nearby table stunned by the emotional impact of the sound of crushed glass. I feel that it would be impossible to get through to him when he is in this state. What happened in that room? Dare I ask? She'd been planning to kill him. I saw her take the daggers off of the back of her belt over that long skirt. Had I been a few seconds late, it would all have been over for him. The thought is too much to bear in silence. Why won't he speak to me? Surely, we've faced worse than assassination attempts?

There's more to it. That I can sense. Did he know her? Shandra reaches over to squeeze my arm reassuringly.

"You know how it is with men. He'll come around."

I shake off the comfort. "Not like this. This isn't the Casavir I know. It can't be just that someone tried to kill him."

"Someone did more than that. Someone tried to murder him in his bed, Una. It's the only place we think is safe, and now it isn't safe anymore for him."

"One of us should sleep in his room from now on. One of the men, I mean." I've added the last bit too quickly. My face colors as I look down at my meal.

"Well," Shandra says, smiling, "I'm not sure that Casavir would be so willing to bunk up with a smelly dwarf or a ranger with a bad attitude. Besides, Bishop would sooner cut his throat than try to save it."

My head snaps up at her words. I drop my spoon into the bowl of stew, finding myself suddenly disinterested in its contents.

"You may have something there, Shandra." I stand up, steeling myself, and carefully approach Casavir. In a tone most uncharacteristic of the man I've come to know, he asks, "What is it?"

I sit across the table from him. His eyes are red-rimmed from the lack of sleep and endless thoughts that appear to wring him out from the inside. I take a deep breath, then reach my hand across the table to place it atop his own.

"Casavir, I don't know what happened to you in that room, but I want you to know that whatever it is, and whatever you aren't telling us, it doesn't change at all who and what you are. Or how we feel about you." I clear my throat. "How_ I _feel about you." One of the problems with having such a fair complexion is flushing to the very tips of my ears when I have to say anything of importance. He doesn't say anything beyond an uncomfortable clearing of his throat.

"My Lady, I do not mean to offend you, but I cannot discuss this at the moment." There is genuine distress in the way he forces out each word. I can feel the ache within me that answers to his pain, and I know at that instant that without a doubt I feel more for this man than simple friendship.

"I can respect that, and I will leave you to your thoughts. But, Casavir, when you feel that you need to unburden your heart, I ask that you... that you let me be the one to listen. It matters to me." I swallow back the lump in my throat. "That is, you matter to me."

Quietly, he whispers, "Thank you, My Lady."

I rise from my chair and touch his back in a friendly gesture. Before my hand has even reached the cloth of his tunic, he flinches.

I head to my room to gather my things. "If this does have anything to do with you, Bishop, I will see you dead."

(An unnamed alleyway in the city of Neverwinter)

"If I hadn't been interrupted, he would be dead already." I look down at my daggers as if they have personally failed me. Although I can still taste the fear and the sweat of him, I haven't had enough.

"Dead already is what I paid you for. What's the problem, Triana? Was he wearing your favorite cologne? Something expensive from Blacklake, maybe?"

Bishop circles me, taunting, throwing every insult he can muster in my direction. "I didn't pay you to make women fawn over him like a little boy lost. If this is something you can't handle, there are others that could do the job for you."

"The contract is mine, Bishop. If you take it away from me, you'll regret it."

"Oh, don't bothering threatening me. You may have a sharp tongue, but that mouth can't go a week without homing in on what your employer's got to offer it." Crudely, he reaches for his groin and thrusts himself in my direction.

Cold anger flashes over me in a way that I find most disconcerting. I feel something of the chill of the first grip of morning crawling up the back of my neck. I look down, almost casually, to see how my fingernails are digging into my palm. The blood eases down the side of it, slipping in drops to the street below. It fascinates me.

"I'll see the contract completed. Have no doubt of that."

"That's a good girl. I've got somewhere else to be tonight. Now, spare yourself the embarrassment of tears, if you would. I haven't got time to stand around putting your world back together."

"Tears, Bishop?" The smile that rises to my face is a grim one. "I think you should find another bed to sleep in this evening. You've got me all wrong if you think I give a damn where you lay your head at night. But wherever it is, you ought to be careful who knows about it."


	4. Chapter 4

4.

(The Sunken Flagon, following the party's venture into the Tomb of the Betrayer)

There are many different ways of coming to terms with the things we've faced. But Casavir's best thinking is always done in battle. It is as if he comes out of the fury of combat more honed, more purified, like a sword on the forge that is hammered to perfection. His thoughts become more focused. He is somehow washed clean of all that troubles him for that time, and that time alone, and he comes forward from each battle changed in some small way. I have watched him when he is in this divine state of awareness many times. The glory of the gods comes upon his form and that of his hammer as if to say that they claim him as their own.

But now that enemy is one that will not be threatened by a charging paladin. It is something more sinister that turns a man's suspicious eye on every companion that walks beside of him. There's no reason for us to be visiting Neverwinter when we- and I do say we- have recently been given charge of Crossroad Keep. Still, we find our reasons. The Keep should be home to us, but this fire is so much warmer. Sand decides he desperately needs a scroll that he's left in his shop. Casavir reminds me that we couldn't possibly use all of the gold or treasure we've amassed, even after splitting it amongst ourselves, so it wouldn't do any harm to donate some of it to the Temple of Tyr. When we return to the Keep, we'll all do so with some measure of regret. There's something so soul-restoring about the Sunken Flagon. And after ducking cobwebs and traps and doing what amounts to little more than exorcising the tortured spirit of the ill-fated Fenthick Moss from the Tomb of Betrayers today, we could all use a decent rest.

And perhaps a bath.

I don't see Duncan around at the bar. He's probably digging around in the cellar for a keg of ale. Deciding he won't mind, I take one of the keys to the storage room where there's one precious tub for just that purpose. It's all very efficient. Inside of the room is a pipe where fresh water can be brought forth, and even a low stove and pot for heating the water. I thank Duncan with all of my heart as I gather myself some fresh clothing from my room and head over. For the moment, I'm thankful that everyone else apparently has some 'urgent' errand that pours them out over the city like anxious ants. And even moreso that Bishop has, for the moment, decided to continue to stay in the city instead of the Keep. That decision is right in order with my plans.

_Don't you people bathe? _I laugh to myself before stepping into the storage room.

I come to regret my sudden need for cleanliness almost immediately. The room is already occupied.

Allowing himself only the light from a single candle flame, Casavir is submerged up to his ribs in the bathing tub. He holds a white washcloth which he is using to scrub at himself vigorously. The attack on his shoulder and arm ceases the instant he sees me step into the room, and there we both are, staring at each other without a word. His face is unreadable. Dismay, embarrassment, annoyance? The light is too dim to truly tell.

"I, I'm sorry. I'll go. I'm uh, I'm going now. Sorry." Yes, I'm stammering. And repeating myself. It's more than I ever hoped I would see of him. The interruption of his attack had such a frenzied air about it that I hadn't even chanced a look at his bare chest or body long enough to remember the image. I had seen him half-sitting up in bed, and the assassin with her dagger up under his chin as she pinned him to the bed from the waist. But even if I had seen something of him, it wouldn't have been intimate like this. Perhaps he can tell that I'm half in tears from my mistake in interrupting him, because he stops me before I'm out the door. There's a splash of water before his voice goes after me.

"Wait. My Lady."

These are the words I've been aching to hear. I would not have dreamed that there was even the smallest possibility that he would speak them. But can he know that if I turn to look at him, truly look at him, it will be difficult to look away? That seeing those muscular arms so bare, so vulnerable and white does something to me?

There is an uncertain quaver when he speaks that catches me in the chest and grips my heart. "When we last spoke, you said that I.. that I..."

"Matter to me." I complete the sentence that he can not. I keep my hand on the doorknob but don't dare turn to look him in the eye.

"Please, My Lady," he says in a strangled voice, "will you turn and look at me?"

My own voice catches in my throat, but I do, very slowly, turn to face him. He has one arm up crossing his chest and over the opposite shoulder, and the other hand up in his hair as if in indecision. But when I had step into the room to look him full in the eye, I start to walk toward him, and something changes between us.

Casavir reaches out one hand to me.

"Una," he says, giving my name more reverence than it owns. "Are you telling me that you love me?"

My voice has grown incredibly weak. "Yes. I do. I do love you."

He seems not to have heard or to be thinking over my words. I can see as I draw nearer to his face that he makes no move- no smile, no answer, no reply. And it is torment to me. I can no longer stand the silence, and so I further unburden my heart. What I long to say is no longer just a phrase, but everything that needs to be freed from me. "I love you, Casavir. I love you. You can't know how I love you."

He watches silently as I remove my clothing and take his offered hand. The admittance of my love has changed the space between us into mere memory.

The warmth of the water swirls about my ankles. Standing nude before him for a few seconds, his gaze never leaving my own, I feel that for the first time truth has faced truth and found acceptance. Casavir at last bridges the gap between us as I settle into the water. His arms are slick and strong when he takes me into his embrace. I am unprepared for the effect that his pounding heart will have upon me or how firm and passionate his kiss is in every way.

He kisses me, and he holds me.

But that is all that he does.

The need to touch more and more of him is overwhelming, and yet still he holds me at bay on my knees inches from him in the water. I seethe with frustration along with the powerful pull to this man that I have secretly loved for so long. He strokes my hair, allows his arm to cradle me as he draws his fingers soothingly up and down my spine. And then he stops to bring my face directly to his.

"My heart has been yours alone for longer than you can imagine. But there is something that I must tell you."


	5. Chapter 5

5. (continued)

-"_my heart has been yours alone for longer than you can imagine_." What sordid story or obstacle could take away the impact of what he has said to me? "-But _there is something that I must tell you."_

I've barely recovered from first words out of his mouth. It feels as though it must be someone else speaking- it cannot possibly be Casavir that says that his heart is- has been- mine. Such joy can never belong to me. At the implications of what he has said, I already begin to feel a world of promise flooding up through my very soul. If I in any way doubted it with the effluence of emotion in his kiss, he has taken away all fears with that phrase. Love is springing forth- love is being born! If that makes my soul too innocent, too naive, I will take my punishment and eat it up like bitter bread. But I know with certainty as he studies my reaction that there is nothing he can tell me that will shake him free from where he has crawled into my heart. And so I give him all of my attention. How could I not when we sit here so exposed to each other with word and deed?

"I'm here because I want to listen, Casavir. Whatever it is that has hurt you so, I want to know."

The familiar battle has begun again within his face. I'm expecting some tale about a long-lost sibling rivalry or gentlemen's folly which has been recently dredged up, somehow involving the assassin. Because I know him well, I understand that past mistakes have a way of dredging up more guilt within him than is necessary, or often even reasonable. I have done my best not to belittle the importance of these life lessons, since they matter to him so. But it is a very long time until he can bring himself to speak. Even in the dim light of a candle I can see that he's tried many words on his lips before changing his mind.

The water cools around us. Just when I find that the tension in my shoulders is unbearable, he takes in a great breath and begins.

"For the first time, I wish that you did not have such faith in me."

It doesn't make sense to me. I search his face, waiting for more, knowing there must be a terrible pain behind this secret knowledge he's about to offer me. Casavir takes another long, cleansing breath. Then, taking my small hand into his own, he brings it to his lips to kiss my fingertips.

"When you came to my room, I confess that I had been dreaming of you. It seemed a dream that was more real than it was imagined. I was certain in my heart that you had... willingly come to me. That we had... lain as man and woman." To hear the very phrase in the timbre of Casavir's voice is alien to me. He has always been known for choosing his words carefully, and, when it is not possible, avoiding such subjects altogether. It moves me so to learn that even as I held him in my dreams, he also dreams of me. But the intimacy of what he has said carries some dark undertone. He shakes his head when he sees the tenderness in my eyes.

"No, please, do not look at me that way. Not yet."

"But I dream of you also, Casavir." I take the fingers that he has kissed and press them to his cheek.

"I ask you to wait until you have heard me to judge me so easily."

"I'm sorry," I say, and sit back, schooling myself to patience.

"When I awoke from my dream, I was unable to move."

"The wand. Yes, it must have paralyzed you quickly."

Casavir sighs, not in the way of one who feels disappointment, but the kind of sigh that speaks of the loss of spirit. I can feel that he hates every word that he tries but rejects, and that he has tried many before giving breath to any. He looks utterly dejected.

"The assassin that came to my room meant to kill me. That is certain. But before she even attempted to carry out the act, she... she used me. I was.. innocent of woman." And the last is too much for him. There is no more that he will, or can, say.

Used. I can see the word hovering there in the air. A glass cast aside. An old pair of leather boots that you sell when you no longer need them. But this is something so much more than that. I can feel little more than horror. It is like a dark wine that ferments with anger. I am infused with a sickening rage when I consider that a soul so genuine, so full of innate goodness has been so cruelly _used. Used. _The tears that well up in my eyes aren't for myself. They are for Casavir. _He was dreaming of me. And when he dreamed, he had thought that he was giving himself to me. _

"Casavir," I say very gently. "Casavir, my love."

I brush back the hair from his forehead and kiss his brow. Then I gather him to me, as much as he will allow, his head resting on my shoulder. "If I have dreamed of you, and you of me, then we had already given ourselves to each other. She cannot take that if you refuse to give it. And you are still everything... _everything_ that you were. You are guilty of nothing."

Long after the candle has gone out, and he has carefully dressed himself for his evening prayers at the Temple of Tyr, I am still burning with sorrow for him.

Also, I swear to myself that the woman will pay.

Neeshka, I need you. What purse are you lifting at this hour of the night? Haven't you had enough sport for the day? Ah, I know just where she will be.

(Neverwinter, outside of the Moonstone Mask)

"Follow him. I swear there's a big fat King's Tear in it for you if you hear everything."

Her eyes widen. "As much as that? You've really been swimming in it these days. I remember when all you gave me for a job was a couple of potions and some thunderstones."

"We're all 'swimming in it', in case you hadn't noticed. And you don't get the Tear until you've brought me back everything I want to know. Don't let him see you, or it's all over."

She swishes her tail in a way that I've come to learn shows her annoyance with me. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that. I won't let you down, Una. I'm just itching to see where he's been all this time anyway. When he's not getting drunk at the Flagon, I mean. Do you want to know who he's..."

"All that and more. See who she is, what she wants, what's in her closet. Don't forget her name. That one's worth a bonus."

Neeshka's eyes are giddy with excitement. She's in her element with a job like this. I wouldn't want to deny her the pleasure.


	6. Chapter 6

6.

(Inn on the road to Neverwinter)

I lie back on the coverlet of the bed with my eyes closed. When I lie this way, I can only see the darkness within myself, watch it swirl, see it congeal upon itself as it dissipates and forms anew. The darkness and I are sisters. She spares me from the indignity of long-lost memories. I never welcome them, but still they come. From the inn's common room downstairs I can hear the mournful melody that some less-than-talented bard weaves on his pipe. It isn't anywhere near worth the supper he'll earn, but it will do to order these thoughts.

Music, the one thing that used to awaken me, only passes over me with its hills and valleys. It is a wreathe of smoke around my room that I cannot see or touch. If even that cannot move me, perhaps I will touch the surface of this memory. And then I will rise from my bed and put my pipe aside. When I walk to the window with its rough, poorly crafted glass to look outside, I will not be seeing the road. I will still see that boy- and he was no more than a boy, even at nineteen. I will see his eyes, like glass, bluer than blue ought to be, know the scent of him like a lamp filled with oil and half burned down. I will recall again that I had never known such perfect, long-fingered hands or skin so uncommonly pure. How his voice lived softly within my chest when our love was born, that day in the snow.

I can withdraw the memory from its ice-encrusted casing, but even then, he will still be standing there facing away from me. It will remind me that I did not expect that it would be the last time that I would see him. I could not have been more wrong, or I would have taken time with the kiss and make it go on until it grew dark around us. I loved him. I take the thought into my mind and test it, but it finds no place, no weight.

Some say that there is happiness in love. As for me, I know that whatever gods loom over us and mock us, they will not allow it. I will crush his memory again like the most fragile of flowers that can not survive a winter. And every face that I see that is lit with terror at my approach will take on that of the one who held that love in check. That hate-filled she-shrew whose eyes were always so narrow and so judging. The one who he called "Mother". The one who by her deeds had put the dagger into my chest and drawn it downward. I died that day. I fell onto the street, curled in upon myself to know that he was gone from me. I could have lived, could have stood, could have insisted upon crawling forth from that shell. But I did not. Instead, I watched as the other self peeled away from me, and left me lying there, ending, withering, no longer wanting. I would kill- I would kill again and again if it could ruin the portrait of her which hung above his bed. Love your mother, the priests will say.

I will love your mother, every day that I bring down this blade.

There is an open bag of coins at the foot of the bed. Their metallic tone winks at me where they tumble forth from the gray sack that holds them in check. A kill for a month of pleasures. At last I seem to be making the right contacts. It is a difficult art, keeping yourself unseen from those who would not appreciate the competition. But I am becoming more known through my efforts.

The nobleman whose entrails I opened tonight like a squealing swine made his end more colorful that I'd intended. When at last I moved down his body from those sightless, wide eyes to the ring on his finger, I had to cut the ring free from its coveted position. Red. Red, like the stone in Cedric's ring. I decide to have the stone reset into a pendant, where I shall wear it like a queen against the breast he no longer touches. And I will smile that crimson-tinged smile comes after a tasting. Is there fear in the salt of him? Oh, yes.

I hear that she is dead now. Did I kill her by the wishing? I would, with bloody hands, if she had not been so out of reach. In this I have failed myself.

Five hard raps upon the door.

Wine or sex, or you'll wish you hadn't come, Bishop.

I'm certain that similar scenes are repeated all over the city tonight. A man greets his partner at the door, and she embraces him, whining of the day's happenings. But this is not my partner, and the most love that I can muster is a recognizance that the man is proficient with his cock. He hasn't brought wine. He looks down at the bag of silver and gold that tips over onto the faded floor rug. Then, in one motion, he takes hold of my arm, twisting it, forcing me to my knees. He roughly poses me so that I face away from him, so that all that he can see is the shirt he strips away from me and my long, black hair.

"You were watching her again today, weren't you?" I mock him, but he is stiff as the floor that my knees press into, uncaring. He thrusts two of his fingers into my mouth.

"Be. Quiet." They are two distinct and separate words. Here on the floor he proceeds to unceremoniously fuck me as though we were two wolves in the wild. He is grunting charmingly with each thrust. I bite down on one of his fingers until I taste his blood. Once he says her name while he yanks back on my hair, and I laugh at him. Bishop pays no attention to my taunts, but goes on assaulting me in a direct, pounding rhythm until it turns to a rush of shoulder-tingling pleasure. I give in to it for the moment.

His body's insistence on seeking out the deepest part of mine keeps him fighting to steady the pressure burning the muscles in his well-shaped thighs to their limit. He goes on, savagely, almost angrily driving himself into me. The force of the act shoves the sack of coins onto its side, where they roll and spill about our legs. Yes, I think, yes, let us be what we were intended to be, and nothing more than this. Animals. Rutting in the dirt on the floor amongst the spoils that we have won. He's drawing blood again with his teeth in my neck. And I ponder how alike we are to demand only this from our lives- blood, a rousing fuck, and a fistful of gold.


	7. Chapter 7

7.

(an Inn on the road to Neverwinter, stairwell)

_Una, better cough up that King's Tear, because this is going to be good._

The innkeeper wasn't hard to convince. He hates them. Both of them. He doesn't mind their good gold, but he gets awfully tired of the racket. And who wouldn't? I've heard him at it with some not-so-very-bright human girl before while he was staying at the Flagon. Don't get me wrong, I think there's nothing bad about getting your cookies off. But, does the rest of the world have to know about it? We've just been lucky as heck while we were out on the road not to have anyone with us that'd be willing to give him the time of day. Not that he wouldn't jump at the chance if Una offered. Ha! A good cleric and a nice gal like that isn't as cheap as a tavern wench. And nowhere near as eager. More fool her, taking so long to wise up that the paladin's in love with her. Even I could see that. And the way she stands back and stares at him sometimes when we're in battle would tip off even the most dense pile of plate mail. How could those two be so blind?

I'd have helped them out, of course, if they didn't figure it out for themselves. But now this hidden away tart of Bishop's made a play for the paladin's life, and at last somebody wised up. I thought I was going to have to club her over the head with her own mace, but this waste of space Bishop's giving a closer view of the floorboards took care of all of that for me.

Eavesdropping always gives me a fit of the giggles. It's hard not to laugh seeing people act like these two. I'm not sure which he's doing- giving her a good time or letting an arrow loose the way he's growling and grunting at her. Good backside on him, though. Too bad about the attitude. Silly little girl is lucky he hasn't robbed her and beat her senseless.

The keyhole, unused and unlockable, is all the view I need. And right now those two wouldn't hear me if I started up a one-woman band.

Now we're getting to the good part. Yeah, yeah, that wasn't the good part. The angle wasn't right. Not a bad bod. He goes to the washbasin and pours some water into it and makes himself what he thinks is all sweet-smelling again. Vanity. I've got his number. The woman he's with gives herself a once-over at the mirror and a half-hearted wash. I grudgingly give Bishop a good look over when his best attributes are in view. Nature's been kind, but not so kind that he'd be worth half the trouble of a tumble. Makes no difference to me either way. But you didn't really think I wasn't going to look? When am I going to get a chance like this again? Such a shame, though, that he's a tad above average. It would have made for pretty decent blackmail material. You think I'm kidding? Some guys, every shred of pride they've got is all wrapped up in that one space.

Bishop puts his pants back on, crosses his arms, leans back against the window. He looks like something sour has gotten ahold of his mouth and he can't stop chewing on it. That scowl. I've seen it a hundred times.

"I want you to take it off. Take off the contract."

The woman with the black hair stops pulling on her boots and looks up at him. "Too late. We've already made the deal."

He narrows his eyes with a dark look. "I don't care if it inconveniences you. You'll take it off. Got it?" He's pretty bossy about it, but maybe he's misjudged her, because she's got her hand on her hip already waiting for him to pounce. They're playing chicken. She spreads her feet to get more of a strong center of balance, and he's starting to walk toward her.

"I don't think we understand each other," she snips at him. "I'm not telling you that my blades are itchy, you stupid mongrel. I'm telling you that it's too late. He's probably already dead."

His voice grows dangerous. "What.. do.. you .. mean?"

"Another step, and I'll take your throat. Or at least an ear."

He composes himself as best he can, which isn't much. I can tell from the way the tic at the corner of his eye twitches that he's pretty riled up.

"Tell me exactly what you did."

She's got to be bluffing. I just left Neverwinter earlier tonight, and Casavir was still safe and sound with Una having a last meal before gathering up the crew to start the journey back to the Keep. With that many people around him, I can't see how anybody would be stupid enough to make a play for him.

"All I did was a little research. I found out what wine he favors."

Poison? Casavir? Is that even possible? I can't remember if he's immune to such things or not. I haven't even started to wonder why Bishop would take the contract off in the first place, and now I've got to figure out a way to keep the paladin from drinking a bottle of wine when he's miles away. I've already started crouching so that I can redistribute my weight on the toes of one foot and begin to move silently away. But there's more that I have to hear, and, honestly, if she's poisoned the wine it's probably already too late.

Bishop starts walking toward the door. I press myself into the wall outside as flat as I can make myself.

"You disappoint me, Triana. You haven't learned how to properly follow directions. Poison," he spits out, "poison would point back to me. A proper Thieves' Guild wench would cut him and make it clean. I don't know why I wasted my time dealing with an amateur like you."

"Bishop. Wait." She goes after him with a hand on his shoulder.

He turns to her, slowly shaking his head and licking at his lower lip. "Love, Triana? If you think your little pout is going to keep me around, you haven't learned much at all."

But the woman laughs, and something about the sound of it is as thick and choking as oil smoke.

"Love? Love _you_? I don't love you, Bishop. You're nothing more than a disgusting, mangy animal that brings me meat once in a while. I want the rest of my money. I suggest you pay."

"Not even the lay was worth that much."

But he tosses her a small pouch, and it tumbles all about her feet with its dull silver.


	8. Chapter 8

8.

(The Sunken Flagon, Neverwinter)

"Poison! POISON!!" The cry goes up. I look immediately over at Casavir, who was happily dipping his bread into Duncan's excellent potato soup just a minute ago. His golden white wine is at his elbow, untouched. Patrons drop their forks in horror.

Duncan grabs the sorceress Qara's elbow, bringing her down to his eye level. "What have you done, lass?"

"Let go of me," she snarls, her opinion of him still snippy for forcing her to work in the Flagon in the first place. I didn't want her traveling with me. And, apparently, she's as good of a waitress and barmaid as she is at being a decent human being. "I don't make the wine. I only deliver it. And if you touch me again like that, I'll melt your fingers down like a candle stub."

The offended party, a member of the Watch, is slumped down over the table with his face in the stew that he and his fellow officer had been enjoying. The officer that shares his table, a normally soft-spoken, polite fellow named Ekel, shakes his patrol partner once or twice more just to make sure he's not having a joke on him. Then he throws down his napkin onto the table, pointing a finger at the closest person, who happens to be a book-engrossed Grobnar. "You! Get a priest! And no one leaves, NO one but the gnome, until the truth is uncovered here!"

Casavir is on his feet at once. He effortlessly lifts the watch member into his arms and carries him to the bar where Duncan is hastily clearing a space. I follow a few paces behind him, already beginning to mouth the words to a spell that neutralizes all traces of poison from the poor man's system. But I can see from the way the skin blackens around his mouth that this is no slow-acting poison, and that we're already out of time. I don't feel him anywhere in the room around us. Whatever god this soldier had claimed to serve, he was on his way to meet him. Grobnar puts his book aside, hurrying out the door.

"I... I can't raise the soul-dead, Casavir. He's too far gone." And the man is indisputably dead.

"Nor can I. Duncan, it must be in the wine. We cannot take the chance that it is only one or two of the wines that you have in your stocks. There is no way to verify that any of it will be safe for drinking."

"What, dead already!?" Duncan cries, throwing up his hands. "This is a disgrace. Who would have done something like this?"

"I do not know," Casavir rumbles. "But I have my suspicions."

"Stay where you are," Ekel tells several extremely unnerved patrons. No one touches a fork or a glass. The atmosphere is grim, fearful. "Duncan Farlong, what wine was served to this man?"

"Well, lass?" Duncan regards Qara with suspicious eyes.

"Winter Wine," she says calmly. "It's the same thing I served Casavir. It's all he ever drinks, you know. He probably thinks he's better than the rest of us. Too good for anything else."

I turn my eyes to the glass of white wine at Casavir's place setting. He hasn't taken a single sip. The breath goes out of me when I recall that he had raised it several times, but put it back down because I was about to make a point in our conversation.

"It was meant for me," Casavir says.

And then, as if things couldn't become any more complicated, Neeshka comes in the door.

"Speak plainly, paladin, by the teats of Umberlee," Ekel swears. "Do you you know what in the hells is going on, or don't you?"

Casavir crosses his arms, looking thoughtful. "I will thank you to not speak in such a manner in front of the ladies present. Whatever has happened, it does not excuse you from common decency. It is possible that this is another attempt on my life. Recently, I was awakened from my bed by an assassin. Her attempt was interrupted, and she was able to flee." Taking command of the situation, he approaches Neeshka, who has her hand over her mouth staring at the corpse on the top of the bar.

"I am told that you..." he glances at the watchman, and lowers his voice. "That you followed someone. Were you able to determine his intentions?"

"Yep," Neeshka makes as comfortable as possible, perching on a chair.

"Out with it!" Ekel snaps.

"Your pardon," I ask of him. "This matter is a personal one. I'm afraid that it can't be discussed openly like this."

He walks up and down the room looking over shoulders as if somehow the assassin will mysteriously materialize out of nowhere. "Very well. Do you know anything of this assassin, paladin?"

"Very little," Casavir sighs, attempting to cooperate but still uncertain as to how much he wishes to divulge. "Her hair was black, worn loose and long. She had two daggers. And she wore a veil. She reeked of ale. I'm afraid she was gone before anything more could be determined."

"And have you many enemies?" Ekel leans on the bar, looking sadly down at his fallen comrade.

"Many." I know who he's thinking of, but I don't say anything. Neeshka's desperate expressions and anxious body language are telling. She wants to get me alone, badly.

"Would you please excuse my friend and I for a moment?" I'm already sweating and nervous from the attempt on Casavir's life. But I have to hear what she has to say.

"Yes, yes. But you-" here he points at Casavir- "you will be staying until I'm satisfied."

"Of course." Casavir gives a slow, deliberate nod. "I will do all that I can."

--

Neeshka is barely inside of the door to my room before she starts to let loose. Keeping quiet has obviously been like trying to keep a small furry animal inside of her mouth. Her tail is twitching, her eyes are bright, and she's holding out her hand. I can feel the excitement rising in me along with a most uncharitable wrath that would not please Oghma in the slightest.

"Cough it up, cough it up!" I comply, placing the gem in her palm.

"Ok, he goes to this rathole of an inn, where the barkeep says she stays when she's not out and about. Then about twenty minutes later- after a good bang and nibble, they argue. And he says he wants the CONTRACT off. Oh! And her name is Triana. And he's a little over seven inches. Give or take."

"Neeshka! Spare me the details. Did he say what contract?"

"Nope! He didn't say. But she said she wouldn't, and then they got all pissy with each other. She talked about poisoned wine. I think he threw something at her, but then I heard him coming for the door, so I threw back an invisibility potion and waited til he left. Then she started screaming and throwing things around. And from there, I remembered how she'd been talking about poison, and thought I'd better hightail it back here. Hightail. Ha!"

"You did well, Neesh," I say, patting her on the back. "But Bishop... where did he go?"

"Oh, that's an easy one. I knocked him out. He's still behind the inn on the ground unless his head wasn't as hard as I thought. Should give you a little time to, you know, do whatever it is you're going to do. He didn't see me. Can I have the rest now?"

"Yes, you can have it all. Gods, if they let me out of here, I'm going to kill him."

"Hey," Neeshka says, speaking more quietly, as if there's anyone around to hear. "So... you and Cas? Are you official?"

"That's none of your business, Neesh."

She sits on my bed, uninvited, putting her hands up under her chin with a wink. "Maybe it's not, but I still want to know. Is he any good?"

I angrily walk over to the door and open it for her. "I wouldn't know."

"You're kidding, Una, he's really celibate? That's got to be hard!"

"Goodbye, Neeshka."

"But-"

"Goodbye."

"Sheesh. Ok, I get it. Call on me anytime if you've got the coin." As she strolls out the door, I realize just how annoyed I truly am at her comments. I should be down with the others, trying to figure out what's going on. But I'm only human. And right now I'm just a woman that's just had to tell one of her best friends that she's sexually frustrated. It may not make me patient, or virtuous, but instead of rushing downstairs I throw myself back on the bed and curl my fists.

I really am going to kill him. He won't get another chance at Casavir.


	9. Chapter 9

9.

(A cave not far from Neverwinter)

"I wonder," I say menacingly, easing my fingertip over the top of my mace, "I wonder why I shouldn't take this opportunity to bash in your skull. No one would miss you. I don't suppose you could give me a reason to let you live?"

"For starters, you haven't got it in you. I can also be useful to you. Unless you've turned into a murdering sadist over night, you'll listen to what I have to say."

"A murdering sadist. Way to call it, Bishop. I don't know much about being a murderer." I hold the mace up to the firelight so that each pointed facet around its edges can catch the glimmer it gives off. "I wanted so badly to give you a chance to be a decent human being. But I'm afraid we can't seem to see eye to eye. First you send someone to rape and murder the man I love... that would be Casavir," I say matter-of-factly. "Then you have your pet gutter-whore try again, and the two of you kill an innocent patron of the Sunken Flagon without a second thought. I wonder if it wouldn't be a better world if I ended your travels right here and now." I look down at him from where I stand above him and notice that the word "rape" has caught him off guard. He shrugs it off in an attempt to bury his surprise in his usual smirk. It's unconvincing with him tied like an animal ready for the slaughter.

"I'm sure he didn't protest too much, 'noble leader'. It's said that you can't rape the willing."

"You can taunt me all you like. You seem to know a great deal about hurting people, but nothing about love. And I love Casavir, Bishop. I don't care what you or your lice-ridden sidekick has to say about it."

"You talk a lot about love," he says, turning his head to the side and spitting dirt and gravel from his mouth. I have his hands tied behind his back so that he can only roll from where he lies on his stomach in the cave floor. "From what I hear," he goes on, in a low, almost threatening tone, "there isn't much love at all going around." He waits for a beat, then raises his voice suggestively. "Of course, I could change that."

Neeshka and Shandra, standing just outside, poke their collective heads inside of the entrance.

"Are you just about finished with him?" Shandra asks, looking sheepish. "Call of nature."

"I'll be a while yet. Why don't you go off and take care of things and then come back. Neeshka will keep a watch. Right, Neesh?"

"I could stay out here all night, Una. But it'll cost ya." She winks.

"Thirty gold. No more than that. Go on." Neeshka nods, and pops her head back out of the cave. I'm truly grateful that it rains sometimes in Faerun so that I can find such convenient little places to interrogate those plotting against me without interference. Although this is only the first time I've used this particular cave, it's serving its purpose well. I remember the day that Casavir showed me how to dig this firepit and how to keep the fire going. Why not have done with it? And why not kill him while I have the chance?

Because he's right. Something in me still believes in a fair trial and that perhaps people can change. And not only that, but he's the only link I have to the psychotic woman that seems hell bent on ending Casavir's life.

And so here I sit, trying to worm something, anything, out of Bishop. It took all three of us to get him on the cart. Carrying him in was no problem after that. Tying him up was a joy.

"I want to know why you removed the contract."

"I decided that he was more valuable to me alive than dead. All this time, making you believe that he could give you what you wanted. And then, when you agreed to lie on your back like a good girl, he couldn't bring himself to finish what he started. Me, I never end what I've started until I get what I want. And I think you're a fool if you can see something that you want but don't have the guts to go for it."

I've been too intent on listening to his every word to notice that his hands are untied. Before I know it he's used an incredibly dextrous act of contortion to get out of his bonds, flip over, and find a seated position. I tighten my grip on the mace and take it into both of my hands, but he interrupts. "Oh, now, don't bother with all of that. I can see that I'm outnumbered for the moment. If someone had to drag me off of the road, it might as well be you. Give me some water."

I'm suddenly frightened when I realize how vulnerable I've become. The dynamic has changed completely. Now we are face to face instead of interrogator and victim. Deciding it would be best to carry out his request, I toss him a wineskin. He grabs it, sucking it down until it's flat.

"You're a liar, Bishop. I don't believe you'd take the contract off of Casavir just so you could wallow in my frustration. You're going to have to do better than that."

"There's the problem," he says. "I didn't tell her to do what she did. It's what she likes. But what she did worked better than anything I could have planned. Now, if you'll send your guards packing, I can explain myself better. I promise to go slowly."

All at once I'm completely frozen with terror, and the mace I hold feels like scant protection from the unpredictable man inches from my face.

"Who'll know? I've got what you want." He lifts his shirt, using the flat of his hand to draw a path from the area between his nipples down to the line of hair below his navel. I watch the subtle movement of his breathing lift that chest, and for a moment he could be any man. But it isn't enough for me. The one thing that he doesn't understand is that flesh alone will never be enough.

"Step away from me, Bishop. Back up against the wall."

His face, illuminated by the orange glow of the fire, becomes more of the animal. I can't tell if the anger in his face is rejection or hatred.

"Fine," he snarls. "If you want to waste your life playing the virgin, that's your problem. But you have no way of proving that I've done anything. And that's the way it's going to stay if you want you-know-who to keep her blades to herself."

Dumbstruck, I slide down the cave wall into a seated position. He's got me.

Neeshka leans her head in again.

"We okay?"

I think of Casavir, who is probably still stranded in the Flagon being interrogated. I think of his large, battle-scarred hands. I imagine the tenderness of his fingertips moving up and down my back while he whispers softly into my ear. And I know that I will do anything, _anything, _to ensure his safety.

"We're fine, Neeshka. We're leaving now."

"All of us?"

"We've managed to reach an understanding," Bishop says, standing.

I feel as though I've freed a caged animal, and yet I know that it was the only thing to do.


	10. Chapter 10

10. (Docks District, Neverwinter)

It's an old trick, this wedging of the blade thrust through a body from behind in such a way that the bleedout is stunted while the suffering is great. It's a shortsword. It's a through-and-through, pinning me, the hilt through the back so that it's impossible to remove on my own. I could even have gone for help if they hadn't put such an intricate knot on my feet while I lay struggling with the cold steel introduced to my abdomen. There will be more pain before the end comes. It won't come right away. With this technique, I'll likely bleed for hours before the shock takes me. He hasn't gotten anywhere near my heart. That's a direct response to everything I'm doing and everything I've done. And I've got to hand it to the Thieves' Guild. They got me. They really made a good show of it.

Right here in the street, in their favorite part of town. No one will come to my aid. It's almost genius.

I've found it's more comfortable if I twist so that I am angled to the side. That way the weight isn't on the blade.

I thought I would fight more for my life. It's almost fascinating to me how passive I am as I move from one phase of the experience to the next. I focus on the cold ground beneath my head and the warm, oozing edges of the wound. Blood feels obscenely soft and velvety in the hands. Why aren't I infused with rage, or the need to at least attempt to work free of my bonds? I try to muster something, but indifference is all that finds me. It's not that I want to die. I simply don't care one way or the other.

All I wanted was one more shot at him. I'm not known for skipping out on a contract, and cancellations aren't permitted. It's an unspoken rule in this business. Once the money is in my hand, the mark is eating his last meal. How could I have failed so miserably with this one contract? To be beaten not once, but twice- even three times if you count that I didn't get the third chance to bring him down. It comforts me that at least I was able to steal one rush of pleasure, one incredibly satisfying ounce of power from the paladin. Let me be the seed of hate that he battles against. Let him carry me as the poison that corrupts. He won't forget what I took from him. By his own body betrayed, he gave me all that I wanted without a single cut.

"By the gods, Elanee," I say angrily. "Why did you call for us? Do you know everything she's done to us?" Summoning a charitable spirit is more than I can do when I look at the woman on the cot. Her breathing is coming faster now in such a way that I can tell she doesn't have long to live. Soon every part of her will begin to shut down, completely and irrevocably. To me it feels like the greatest of insults to profane my own room with the seemingly soulless shell of this assassin that has tormented us. Casavir leans over her on his knees. The shadows on his face have been forged by Triana's hands.

"You are dying," he tells her matter-of-factly. "If we remove the blade, you will bleed to death." His hands press down on her shoulders so that he can look her in the eye.

When I hear his next words, I begin to tremble. How can he- how can anyone- be so selflessly good? I can't fathom that he could find forgiveness for this creature that kills without qualm. But somehow he does, and somehow he puts aside the man in favor of the paladin. His voice takes on a sound of authority as he speaks. He is offering her absolution.

"If you have a need to confess, or forgiveness that you would seek, now is the time. I will accept your pleas on behalf of Tyr, the God of Justice. He will hear you. There is not much time. Speak."

The woman is hyperventilating, trembling, eyes going wide. Will she at this last moment embrace his offer? Elanee and I stand rigid like two sentinels of a minute that will forever be etched in time.

Triana whets her lips with her tongue. They part, struggling to form one word. "Die." It rises up from her like a hiss. And she takes hold of Casavir's shoulders, yanking him with all of her remaining might down on the exposed tip of the blade.

Panic is forced upward in my breast like scattered birds. Casavir has managed to pull himself free, but he goes down on his knees, staggering and gasping as his blood quickly soaks his tunic. I turn him to me, ripping at his shirt with all of my strength. The words of a spell are already pouring from my mouth. I clasp my palms to his chest, freeing a torrent of light that seals muscle and flesh. Blood that has no source now is caked in the hair of his chest and slick in my hands.

"Casavir!" I cry, cradling him against me, blood be damned. His eyes are very far away. But he is breathing, and he is alive. The assassin's eyes have fluttered away along with a spirit tearing free of the body that will no longer house it.

Elanee stands rooted to the spot as Casavir and I embrace each other. Her druidic magic has not been necessary.

"It seems that fate has linked the two of you in some way. The shard that entered your chest when your mother held you against her... and the blade that sought you, Casavir. It seems to bind you one to the other. Both of you have been offended by the point of a blade and lived despite it." Though her words have wisdom, for the moment I cannot see beyond the end of this small space. And when I answer her, it carries no end of bitter humor.

"Or perhaps some of us are just lucky." I kiss Casavir's lips gently. "Three times lucky."

(Faithless)

What is- and what was. What could have been. Two halves of decision peel one from the other; I can see the other half of my soul stripping away. Then there is swirling, chanting, writhing darkness. It spins me into its maelstrom. From the instant that I broke free of the dying flesh, I felt nothing but the chains that had hooks in me. I watched the Triana-of-remorse being lifted toward something not darkness. And I knew that she was me, but she was not. But I, who could not unbuckle myself from the driving need to destroy, had endless heaviness upon my soul. And it was craven, for it could not exist without lust. Lust for flesh. Lust for power and for blood. The lust to win.

I was always too heavy to walk forward into light.

At the edge of my senses come screams of hate and shouts of tortured agony.

Scrabbling claws open my eyes into holes that form and reform. There will be no death and no end.

Every face on the wall is like my own. We are nothing.

We see nothing but ourselves. We believe in nothing.

I lift my eyes to the disappearing spark of a soul that made the other choice.


End file.
